[At this moment there is a confused sound of Oriental instruments outside, with wailing cries. Sylvia turns from Horace, and goes back indignantly to the divan on the left. Horace follows, and sits by her.
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Waking up as the music stops.] Dear me! What is that horrible noise? Not cats?
Professor Futvoye.
Cats! No,—it's Arab music! [To Horace.] So you've a fresh surprise in store for us, eh, sir?
Horace.
[Forlornly.] It—it does sound rather like it, Professor.
[Four negro musicians enter, playing a tom-tom, mandoline, flageolet, and native fiddle respectively, while they chant a weird ditty, and sit cross-legged, right and left of the central arch.
Sylvia.
[As the music stops.] Horace, this is really too bad of you! You assured me there was nothing more coming!